DIARY
DOMINIC LAWSON An extraordinary fact emerged in the Evening Standard's Homes and Property sec- tion last week. In its regular table of Aver- age Property Prices 'excluding those worth less than £10,000 and more than £1,000,000' it reveals the following: that terraced houses in Kensington in the first quarter of this year sold for an average of £1,153,155, compared with £518,919 in the first quarter of 1999. Some might quibble and say that there must be some mistake: how could a class of prop- erties selling for less than E1 million average more than £1 million? But that would be to underestimate the skill of London estate agents and the anxiety of buyers: of course the property market in the most chi-chi area of London can defy the laws of mathematics. I speak chastened by experience: more than three years ago we sold our house in Notting Hill and with the money bought a house in a Sussex forest. It now seems that if we still had our house in ludicrously fashionable Notting Hill, we could swap it for the entire county. Am I bitter? Well, not all the time, and certainly not between the months of April and September. And, at any time of the year, I can, on a clear night, look up and see the stars. Then I feel indescribably lucky. You can, of course, see stars at night in Not- ting Hill, but they twinkle only if you tell them how good they were in their last film.
Indescribably lucky is not, however, how I would describe those of us who rely on Con- nex South East for getting into London every day. In the more than two years I have been using this French-owned franchise of the now privatised rail system, I have known my regular train arrive at the appointed time on only one occasion. I was so overwhelmed that I wrote to the company to congratulate it on this unique achievement. Earlier I had written to the line's commercial manager to point out that I really wouldn't mind that the journey always took longer than stated, if only the timetable was rewritten to reflect the actual duration of the journey. He replied that 'the delay pattern is so erratic and random that this would not be possible'. I warmed to the man's honesty. But then a few weeks ago Connex South East did pro- duce a new timetable — one that reduced by two minutes the official time of a journey which all its customers know was already beyond its capabilities to meet. I don't think that any of us would mind the poor time- keeping quite so much, if only the French owners were able to guarantee basic levels of hygiene and cleanliness in their trains. But all is graffiti, filth, missing light bulbs and broken mirrors. And that's just the first-class compartments. The rolling stock of Connex South East resembles nothing so much as New York before Rudolph Giuliani doubled the number of policemen and declared 'zero tolerance' towards petty crime. Those who have used the line for longer than I have tell me that it was certainly no better when it was run by British Rail. I can believe that. But I doubt that I would have written quite such effusive leaders for this magazine in favour of rail privatisation if I had guessed what the Frenchmen of Connex had in mind to inflict upon the hard-working commuters of Kent and East Sussex.
One of the political benefits of rail pri- vatisation was supposed to be that when some disaster happened it would not be blamed on the government, but on the company alone. Unfortunately for the Con- servatives, they now seem to be collectively blamed for any rail disaster on the grounds that 'it wouldn't have happened if it weren't being run for profit'. You will not be sur- prised to learn that Mr Harold Pinter inclines to this view. I have this on the authority of someone who found himself at an intriguing dinner party a few days after the Paddington rail crash. One of the guests was England's most famous play- wright. Another was Mr Michael Howard. Even before an introduction could be effected Mr Pinter was on the attack, in characteristic style. 'It's your fault,' he boomed at Mr Howard. 'What's my fault?'
`I sometimes feel like packing it all in, moving to the South Seas and becoming a war artist.' replied the former home secretary. 'The Paddington rail crash. You lot privatised the railways. It's your fault.' Mr Howard replied, 'You will have heard of Chernobyl. As far as I am aware, the Russians had not privatised their nuclear power industry. Pinter paused — dramatically, of course and then said, 'You've got a point there.' I imagine those around the dinner table gave a collective sigh of relief.
Ionce experienced a similar sense of relief at an embarrassing public confronta- tion avoided, while attending a board meet- ing of The Spectator. It involved Norman Tebbit. In April 1990, the same month that I became editor of The Spectator, Norman Tebbit was appointed as a director. A week or two later he made his now famous remark that there should be a 'cricket test of national loyalty. Those who cheered for, say, India when it was playing England at cricket should not, Tebbit reasoned, be seen as fully British, even if they were born and brought up in this country. Partly, I sup- pose, because I did not want people to think that The Spectator was now the official pub- lication of the Tebbit wing of the Conserva- tive party, I published a leader entitled 'N° cheers for Mr Tebbit'. It declared, 'To sug- gest that loyalty should be inspired by emo- tional appeals to yobbo nationalism is to be an enemy of the open society.' One or V° newspapers picked up the fact that The Spectator had chosen to savage its newest director. A few weeks later came my first Spectator board meeting. Norman Tebbit, sitting opposite me, waited for the chair- man, Algy Cluff, to ask, 'Any other 1%19 ness?' and said, 'Yes. I would like to raise the leader in which I was attacked through- out and accused of being a yobbo.' Here we go, I thought. 'I would just like to say', said Tebbit, 'that I think it's good publicity r° have the editor attacking one of the duet, tors. It gets the magazine talked about. And then Norman grinned at me. I realise that this could destroy Lord Tebbit's cher; ished reputation as a 'semi-house-travel' polecat', but the truth must finally . he revealed: he is, away from the poliV stage, the complete gentleman. He is, la fact a perfect example of what I propose r call, Utley's Law, after my former secreral at The Spectator, Ginda Utley. Ginda ha previously worked as a secretary for a that ber of MPs, and she observed to me th.„80 those who had the worst public repurall", were the most considerate and charrI117 employers, while those who made elflic mous efforts to convince the general Pub to of their considerateness were cdrriP'e ,5 nightmares to work for. Remember Utley Law: it explains more about politics 01 any textbook.
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